


what could have been

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Extra Treat, M/M, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: If the Tyrion who last graced these halls happened upon himself now, he might be surprised.Then, he would look upon this meager mattress and the young bastard licking wine from his lips. “Not a bad end,” he would say. “Not a bad end at all.”





	what could have been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).

> Hope you enjoy this treat, spookykingdomstarlight!

What was once a roaring fire dulls to dying embers. Tyrion despises few things more than far-too-apt symbolism. It is clearly time for him to take up what remains of the wine jug and seek an hour or two of sleep.

Tyrion thinks they may survive given the number of stubborn bastards in their lot. His queen, on the other hand, thinks him a fool. Perhaps playing past odds is not as wise as a dwarf once known for his wisdom hopes.

Speaking of bastards, the noblest among them picks this moment to storm into the dining hall. He is a bluster of hair and purpose. His boots click off floors still soiled by Tormund's impressive display of imbibing.

(It takes a great deal to impress Tyrion where drinking is concerned.)

The wine jug seems the target of Jon Snow’s embellished entrance. With no greeting or explanation, Jon pours himself an overflowing cup. It makes the amount Tyrion snuck to Poderick seem a child's ration. A spatter of red hits the floor. With no mind paid to the mess, Jon drains his cup halfway down.

Tyrion takes his own thoughtful sip. “I cannot brood as you do, nor can I drink with the same righteous flourish. Perhaps it’s for the best that the dead are coming tomorrow.”

Jon offers no comment, save the audible gulp of another mouthful. His throat bobs in quite the eye-catching fashion.

What does Ned Stark’s bastard do that does not warrant a lingering gaze? He is a man made for queens, a man for men to follow. A man for a silly dwarf to smile up at and wonder. 'What could have been' seems the tragic refrain of any imp. Jon Snow tucks nicely into Tyrion’s narrative.

Jon refills his cup to the brim before taking a seat before the fire. He claims the chair once occupied by his wild, red-haired friend. His own dark locks bear a touch of gold from the flames. Tyrion considers tossing a fresh log on the fire, staving off winter's chill for a few minutes longer.

Too much work, Tyrion decides. He refills his own cup instead.

“You have the look of a man who just realized that an army of the dead lurks at our doorstep,” Tyrion observes. “I suppose it’s better to know late than not at all. It would have been quite the shock tomorrow.”

“How can you joke?” Jon demands out of nowhere. “All the time, no matter how close to the bottom we get. You've got a smart word for everything.”

Tyrion shrugs. “A dwarf dwells closer to the bottom than any of you. If I cannot find the humor in a thing, who will?”

Jon has no response, save another healthy swallow of wine. He turns on his chair to face the fire.

Tyrion steps forward to join him. “You missed quite the gathering earlier," he says. "Did you know that your wildling friend suckled the teet of a giant woman for three months? I believe he told the story to impress the Lady Brienne. It will shock you to learn that it didn't work.”

Tyrion leaves space for Jon to insert his thoughts. It does not surprise him to receive only silence.

“I should say 'Ser Brienne,' actually. Ser Brienne of Tarth, knighted by my brother on this night. It was quite momentous. The first of what is sure to be a proud line of women knights. Times are changing, Snow. Too much to allow a simple thing like death to impede them.”

Jon drains the rest of his cup.

Tyrion returns to the serving table and fetches the wine jug. It has grown light at this late hour, a fact he would lament if not for an untouched wineskin waiting in his chambers. He may as well have a warm belly when winter descends with its army of corpses.

Tyrion's own cup still plentiful, he allows the wine left to Jon. It is enough to fill the cup in full. Jon accepts the gesture with a sigh. Good enough thanks for Tyrion, who sets the jug at their feet.

“I remember when we first met here,” Jon says.

“Outside, as I recall,” Tyrion says. “Two unwelcomed bastards hiding from our families.”

“Simpler times,” Jon says. His gravel whisper fades behind a swallow.

Tyrion smiles. “Yes, it was far easier dealing with only the plotting, murderous ways of the living. Simpler times indeed.”

Jon gazes at him, head lowered and eyes honest. Few can give a look like Jon Snow.

“It’s funny, tonight is rather like that night,” Tyrion muses. “Our families and friends are otherwise engaged. I have my trusty drink in hand. And you, brooding as no one else can. The only difference is, that night I could not persuade you to drink with me.”

“I should have,” Jon says. “Had I known what was to come, I would have done so without a second thought.”

Tyrion laughs at the quick response, and its earnestness. He moves near enough to tap his half-full cup against Jon’s. “We both have enough regrets to fill this great hall. Refusing to drink with a dwarf hardly deserves to be one of them.”

Jon looks at Tyrion, and between their cups. Their levels almost match. A game, then.

Tyrion raises a toast. “To the end of the world,” he says.

With quirked lips, Jon does the same. “On three,” he says. “One, two-”

‘Three’ unspoken, they commence. Jon, naturally, beats Tyrion to the last drop. Even at Tyrion’s best skill, there is no defeating Jon Snow.

“I should have shared a drink with you that night,” Jon says. “There are many things I should have done different.”

“We have enough dead things coming for us to worry about bodies long-buried,” Tyrion says. He considers, glancing at the empty wine jug. “But I have an unopened wineskin in my room, if you’d like to make amends now.”

Jon nods, teeth scraping his bottom lip. “I would,” he says. “Lead the way.”

Tyrion has indeed become a fool. He does not expect Jon to say yes. “A Lannister leading a Stark bastard through Winterfell,” he remarks. “It truly is the end of days.”

***

Despite his status as Hand of the Queen, or thanks to it, Tyrion is afforded a meager room. Tyrion would like to think Sansa had a hand in the decision. It is a playful bit of cruelty that makes Tyrion believe they may repair their friendship one day. If they manage to survive the coming siege, that is.

As Ned Stark’s bastard, Jon’s quarters must be bigger. Though perhaps not nicer, if one believes tales of Lady Catelyn’s long-standing grudge.

Still, Jon refuses to move their gathering to his room. Tight a fit though it is, a bed and space for little else, Jon betrays no discomfort. He sits on a side of Tyrion’s mattress and sips from Tyrion's wineskin. A flush warms his cheeks, deep enough to be seen by the light of a single candle.

What could have been indeed. The untouched possibility makes Tyrion smile.

If the Tyrion who last graced these halls happened upon himself now, he might be surprised. Then, he would look upon this meager mattress and the young bastard licking wine from his lips. “Not a bad end,” he would say. “Not a bad end at all.”

“I will do what I can tomorrow,” Tyrion tells Jon. “Sansa will stay beside me. As long as I’m able, I will keep her safe.”

“Your wife,” Jon says with a smile. Tyrion can count on one hand the number of times he has heard Jon try to tell a joke.

It is the rarity, not the humor itself, that draws Tyrion’s laugh. “Unconsummated,” he reminds. “And tomorrow seems neither the time or place. It may be impolite to say, but nothing makes my cock shrivel faster than that crypt of yours.”

“Any place will do after enough of this,” Jon remarks, shaking Tyrion’s wineskin. “Even this room.” He takes in the claustrophobic nearness of the walls.

Tyrion hums agreement. “Your sister’s doing is my guess. Yet another reason why you have nothing to fear. Were she interested in resuming our failed marriage, I may have received more in the way of comfort.”

The wineskin glugs spiritedly as Jon drinks. Tyrion allows himself to watch. Death on the horizon, there are few things he would not allow himself now. Tyrion ventures, “It’s tradition to greet death after one final night enjoying the fruits of the living.”

Jon blows out a breath, as if warming his stomach with wine is cause for great exhaustion. “I doubt the brothels are running tonight,” he says. “You might have to look elsewhere if you want to stick that magic cock of yours in something.”

“They tell tales of this magic cock not because I’m an imp, but because I’m me,” Tyrion informs Jon. Jon snorts but smiles. It is a fitting look for him. “And I meant for you. Enjoyable as good wine and my company are, there must be something better for you outside this room.”

“There isn’t,” Jon says.

Tyion shrugs off his earnestness. “Good of you, Snow,” he says. “But then, I forgot. If the stories are true, you've already marched up to death’s door and plowed your way through. Tomorrow is just another day. Your latest journey to a wasteland already touched.”

Jon replies by removing his cloak and, after it, his tunic. Tyrion’s mouth slips open.

Fool though Tyrion has become, despite many mistakes made, few things in life truly surprise him anymore. Tyrion anticipates the worst and is too often rewarded for his pessimism. But Jon unclothed is a sight so beyond possible that even Tyrion’s sharp mind does not expect it.

In the center of Jon’s chest stands a large, blunt scar. The size of a sword’s blade. Of many swords’ blades. A dark, cavernous blemish on moon pale skin.

“You can touch it too, if you’d like,” Jon tells him.

Tyrion frowns. “That isn’t funny.”

“It's not meant to be,” Jon says. His gaze is dark, haunted and eager in equal measure.

Tyrion pushes up on his knees, eyeing Jon across the bed. “You should not tempt those less noble than yourself,” he says. "That's a life lesson for you, Snow."

Jon replies with boots kicked off. Each hits the floor with a hollow thud. Holding Tyrion’s stare, Jon plugs the wineskin’s cap. Then, he lies on his back. The mattress shifts under Tyrion at the change in weight.

Tyrion crawls across the sheets to sit at Jon's side. With a wry smile, he cups Jon’s bearded chin. “You’re far too pretty, you know,” he says.

Jon plucks Tyrion’s hand from his jaw and sets it against his neck. When he swallows, his throat jumps under Tyrion’s fingers.

“I thought you were smarter than this, boy,” Tyrion chides. He takes Jon’s offered lips in a kiss. The arm Jon winds around Tyrion’s waist seems to devour him whole.

***

Tyrion opens the door to his meager room. Jon stands in the entranceway. His hair is wet from a recent wash and twined away from his face. Tyrion too is warm from bathing, but nowhere near warm enough to erase the chill of last night.

So many bodies still. Everywhere. Yet the sun shines over Winterfell. How, after last night, can the sun shine.

Jon steps inside and closes Tyrion’s door behind himself. Tyrion thinks to smile. To say they lived. To joke that Tyrion was right all along.

But the truth is, all did not live. Even those who did not die.

Jon sinks to his knees.

Tyrion sets hands on his burdened shoulders. He feels it too, this weight. The crumbling feeling of one who may have finally seen too much.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Jon asks in a whisper.

Tyrion’s dwarf body is not large enough to embrace him. He lacks the length, the broad chest, the height, the strength. The best he can offer is imp arms around Jon's neck and fingers in the damp nest of his curls.

That first meeting in Winterfell, such simple times. If only he had known back then.

*The End*


End file.
